


Gabrielle/Tonks Short Stories

by shyath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21870139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyath/pseuds/shyath
Summary: Crossposted from Fanfiction.net. Short stories featuring Gabrielle/Tonks.
Relationships: Gabrielle Delacour/Nymphadora Tonks
Kudos: 1





	1. My Heart Was A Bruised Object

My first kiss was under a row of maple trees and it tasted of autumn and late evening chill, with just a little hint of cotton candy. Though, truth be told, that would simply be something I wished it was. My first kiss was under a rain of spells and it tasted of blood and smoke, with just a little hint of death. The bittersweet taste of it and the feel of her slightly trembling lips, as if she were about to reciprocate, haunted me for days.

And she slapped me right after. Or again, I wished that was what she had done. Instead, she pushed me away and rubbed at her lips; like she could somehow get rid of that little bit of me I left on her.

It - the action, her look, my crumbling heart - stung and rubbed raw the wrong way. "I'm sorry," I remembered saying, my lips tugged on ends to form something that should resemble a smile. "It was a joke," I continued in a whisper. Of course it was not a joke. We were under a hail of attacks and under the impression that it was about to be our last moment on good ol' earth. Of course it was not a joke, but she did not need to know that.

"Of course," Tonks agreed a little too readily, like it would somehow make it true, before disappearing afterwards. The last clear image I had of her was her quickly retreating back and the pile of rubble that exploded in her wake: it was beautiful, like the red hair she had sported that night - like fireworks in a black, black night sky.

* * *

"You don't understand," Tonks had insisted. Her eyes were the deep blue of cobalt that night, and I remembered they took my breath away. Obviously they had taken any coherent thought I had left already. I had promised to be good to my heart and left Tonks well alone, but the brutal reminder of mortality during those days made the need to feel her alive overcome every other need of mine.

We were pushed into a niche, hoping to be forgotten people in a forgotten building. If only it worked out like that. I breathed her (and the smell of a stranger, but it was Tonks and she was a new person every single night) in and cherished our proximity. The heat of her skin seemed to permeate mine (through the thickness of our coats and her gloves and my naked fingers felt like chips of ice as they traced the angles of her cheekbones) and I felt like burning in the English winter.

It was nearly five minutes before she finally pushed me away. Again, but she always allowed me some time to take her in, a part of me hoped she took the time to take me in as well. This time I did not say sorry, but I did tell her, "You don't understand either." It was an unfinished sentence and I left her with a meaningful look. Her gaze on my back felt heavy on my shoulders.

It was a beautiful night. I could see the moon in the sky and I could see the silhouette of my first love in a restless dream.

* * *

It was a few months after the kiss and our surprise encounter that I ran into Tonks once more. We had different responsibilities in the War and so we rarely met each other and knowing that she had taken some time away from the frontline for my twentieth birthday was definitely cause for a celebration.

"Happy birthday, Gabrielle," she whispered, careful at keeping her distance from me. It was not like I would be pouncing on her at the smallest hint of an opening. Or maybe I would, if she were to give me a chance opening. She had in her hands a bouquet of yellow roses, which I accepted with all the grace my upbringing had pounded into me. It was a little strange to see such a vibrant sign of life in an otherwise dreary environment. It was however my choice to use my Healer training to contribute to the War effort as I could. It was also a good way of making sure who was alive and who was not.

"I'm twenty now," I told her, looking straight into her eyes. The colour of the roses burned themselves into my memories. I did not bother with thanks, the way I held her hands captive with both of mine as I also kept a death grip on the bouquet should be telling enough.

"You're still too young," Tonks told me, offering a painful smile as she took her hands back. It did not matter that she was dishing me what Remus Lupin had dished her a few years back. The hurt in my chest was of the present and I thought the roses looked especially beautiful bathed in tears.

Happy birthday, Gabrielle.

* * *

My heart was a bruised object and I seemed to disregard the state it was in. After all, if I were to care even the slightest bit, I would have stopped this pursuit of an impossible love. Impossible. Improbable. There was a time, only a few months ago, when I could have been able to tell the difference between the two more distinctly than I could now.

But again I came to offer my heart on a silver platter.

"Tonks," I whispered softly, letting my fingers just ghost over her hand.

"I must look horrible," she told me in an unusually small voice. Her smile forced its way through a coagulated mess of blood and unidentifiable matter. Her eyes, which I liked to think I was very familiar with, were nearly dead in their weakness. If not for the familiar heat, I would almost not recognise her.

"No," I told her fiercely, refusing to let my tears fall, "you still take my breath away." And she did. The first time I fell in love with her, she had looked like an unfortunate cross between a pig and a crow.

Maybe Tonks was confused by the loss of blood, maybe she wanted to do some last-minute charity, but as the Healers came rushing to work on her, she surged up while pulling me down suddenly and pressed her lips haphazardly against what I presumed she expected to be my lips. Her teeth clashed against the corner of my mouth and I tasted blood on the tip of my tongue, death was a strong side taste and I felt a burn in my chest like nothing I had ever felt before. I felt another sorry coming forth and my tears started falling like every single time I had come into close contact with the woman of my dreams.

"You're still too young," Tonks whispered and fire trailed across my cheeks where her lips brushed mine as she fell back. It was a rendition of a moment I understood all too well, but this time she kept my hands pressed against her heart and the moment before she lost all consciousness, I thought I felt her heart skip a beat as her eyes fell on me.

Wake up, Tonks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for FemSlash Advent Calendar: Dog Days of Summer 2009.


	2. You and I

We have an understanding. I do not touch. She does not speak. It has served me well. I suppose her continued acceptance of our arrangement suggests the same.

I come to the theatre every single night, sitting in the same seat every single time. Sometimes the theatre is full; more often than not it is half-empty - filled by half-hearted stragglers, taking refuge from the rain, from the real world. I may be just the same. I never wear the same face twice. I never use my real face. Perhaps the only reason she recognises me is by the seat I take. At least the thought keeps me reserving the same spot.

The ending of the play sets off a playback of every single night before this one. Everyone disperses, trudges back to their individual lives and goes back out into the real world, where their lives are not divided by cheap, dilapidated stage props, where their roles are not defined by the clothes you are assigned for the night. It may have been easier if it were so. Though my masks stay on, but no one needs know how much I will love to have one permanent role to call mine.

Tonight I am a struggling, muggle businessman from Scotland trying to make a fortune in Paris. The city of lights, where the lights shine too brightly that they all merge and nothing remains distinct in its wake. The thought is a relief, depending on the time of the day.

I wait till everyone has gone, till the lights have turned off, till the stage is left bare with nothing but itself. And her. No one questions her reason for staying overtime. No one has the energy to withstand her, her will, her beauty, her everything. Why a quarter-Veela of a distinguished family and an outstanding education chooses to immerse herself in the low-paying pursuit of a muggle stage actress will always be a question better left unanswered. I have never asked her. She will probably never offer.

She stands from where she has been perched on an upturned, cardboard box. She does not say anything and I do not expect anything to change. She makes her way off the stage. I know where is she going without her needing to tell me. So I stand to follow. My hands are heavy with the bouquet I hold close to my heart. Not tonight, I tell myself once again. With that, I discard my gift, my offering, my poor attempt at trying to label my conflicting emotions on my way out.

The door to her room is flimsy and there are multiple marks on it: scratches and stains, peeling paint and a lopsided, golden star that reads 'Gabrielle Delacour'. She is already behind the screen by the time I get to her room. The screen is so thin - perhaps of age, more likely of the theatre manager's frugality - that the silhouette of her pierces through. I take my seat once more. Another performance has unfolded.

Gabrielle always keeps her back to me. Though I know she is aware of my eyes on her. How can she not? Am I not burning trails into that pale, flawless skin? Each article of clothing disappears to uncover what should never have been hidden to start with, each with a slowness that can only be described as painful. Like this ache in my heart. Like this arrangement between us. If I were to push, she will probably pull away and I can never risk that. I take comfort in knowing I am the only pair of eyes on her now. I take comfort in knowing that she is performing for me alone.

"You were breathtaking," I croak when she has finally stepped out from behind the screen. You are breathtaking, my mind, my heart corrects my mouth.

She smiles faintly, a fleeting smile, just ghosting over her lips, like the lights of Paris, burning into the backs of your eyelids without any consideration for the after-effects, but still worth savouring every moment. She looks to her right slowly and maintains her gaze there.

I follow her line of vision and see a calendar stuck haphazardly onto what amounts to a closet in this poor excuse of a theatre. The calendar is spartanly bare, except for a note stuck on tomorrow. "Is it time?" I ask carefully.

She nods. She regards me with a solemnness a girl, a woman of her age should never be burdened with. She is twenty-two. I am thirty-six. I should be wearing that face, but thanks to this ability of mine I even forget what expression I need to wear at times.

"Oh," I say lamely. I know her job takes her places. Nowhere far. But far enough. As it is, I have been taking too much nightly trips to Paris that my fellow Aurors are starting to ponder whether or not I am harbouring a secret lover in the city of lights. If only it were true. "I - I don't suppose -" I really have no idea what I should say. What does one say after technically stalking a girl fourteen years your junior? What does one say after having agreed to this strange arrangement and going along with it for the past two months? It has been fun? It has been rewarding? Sounds like the sort of half-baked stuff I use to say whenever I finish an assignment. Merlin knows you cannot compare Gabrielle to one of my assignments.

"Let me see you," Gabrielle says suddenly. Two months of silence and she breaks it now. If I were to suppose an appropriate time for her to break her silence, I suppose the night before her departure may be a romantically good suggestion, but what bad timing.

"Huh?" Ah, good work, me. Thirty six years old and I can barely string a proper sentence. Good work indeed.

"Let me see you," she repeats earnestly. "You have seen me. I want to see you." Her eyes are penetrating and her voice is carefully modulated. Her English is impeccable. Though I should know all of this, since I have made it a side job of mine to take note of all that I deem is a part of her.

I squirm under the pressure but give in nonetheless. I cannot say no to her. I usually cannot say no to a friggin' coat stand, but no one has ever seen 'me'. No one has ever asked. I have never offered. The layers come off . The masks disappear. I wish it is as dramatic as my mind makes it out to be. After all, Gabrielle is an actress by choice, I am not, but both of us have been in the business for some time and we both know the weight of revealing faces without makeup, faces without masks, it is almost like revealing your heart. Almost.

Her expression softens incredibly as my real face appears. Softens like I have never seen it, not when the love of her character's life proclaims his undying love for her, not when the world of the stage crumbles and only the two of them remain standing for some unknown reason.

It is only that one sign that shows she has acknowledged some part of me she has not before. She has not moved. She has not said anything else. She simply has a new light in her eyes. Just like the lights of Paris, but every light in her eyes is distinct to me and to see me reflected in her eyes as myself is like seeing a masterpiece performed. With that one sign, I throw caution to the wind and leap forward. I discard the remnant of our arrangement, after all she has broken it first, and embrace the spontaneity of the moment, embrace her, embrace my Paris in the bounds of one person.

When she sighs into the space between my barely open lips as we tumble down onto creaking floorboards and discarded costumes, I think I will never again find such a good result from taking a random chance.

"Gabrielle."

"Tonks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Written for Challenge ~ Spontaneity at contrelamontre.


End file.
